Before doing anything to help the half-giants, I need to see how many like-minded people are. The vendor did not want a war. And maybe they dont even need one. Not a proper war, at least. Not an open one.
If you want to sell antidotes in bulk, you must first poison the city.
While I walk down the street, I see a bookstore on my left. A bookstore? For a second, I remain still. So far, I had the impression that books were expensive. Then, I see a small shop with a big glass window right on the side of a small street. And the na of the place is Marzalliums Books. All the window glasses around the city give the impression of window shopping in a town with dieval features.
Taken by curiosity, I can't help but enter the place.
The sll of paper or parchnt even is very thick on the inside. There are many books amassed on top of each other. The place is sowhat disorderly and cluttered. But the sll inside is what every reader of every age covets when they think about getting a book. And here, it's even rawer than usual. It's a symphony of sensations from the sll to the very natural chemicals you can taste on the tip of your tongue.
The books here are oversized, so clearly made by half-giants for half-giants. However, the majority is the standard size for a book in the dieval ages. They are thick, obviously. But most of all, they are many. So many books that they make columns behind which sight breaks on pages.
There was no bell on the door at the entrance. Nothing announced my presence other than the sound of the door gently opening and closing. I touch the leathery cover of a volu entitled Epretos Chronicles while I wait for soone to get to . I take in the smooth and, at the sa ti, the rough feeling of the leather on the cover of this enormous volu. Then, seeing how no one ca to greet yet, I just open it. There are imdiately so illustrations of maps welcoming .
Nonfiction and poetry are what I'm accustod to. Indeed, fiction and prose are not my preferred choice, especially Russian or English ones. I like when words are used carefully and distilled to powerfully deliver aning. Poetry, in a way, is like engineering; it's all about synthesis and efficiency. In prose, you can put an inordinate number of useless words to fill the pages, and the reader will likely not notice. And even if they do, they might just brush that aside as a sign of a more flowery language. In poetry, you have to be extrely careful how you use the words. Even just one word, more or less, could completely change the final result of any poetic composition.
Today, however, I'm not looking for any poetry. Even though I would be interested in what half-giants or other creatures of this continent have written, I'm more interested in practical knowledge.
Young lady, put your greasy hands off that book, a wizened old voice says.
Excuse ? I reply, not removing the hand from the book.
A half-giant cos out from behind a pile of books. Deep wrinkles line the expression on his face, but two piercing blue eyes stare relentlessly right through my soul. Theres a stark contrast between the intensity of the old half-giants gaze and his withering body.
What do you think you're doing? the old man says again with a gruff voice. You can almost hear his age from how he speakshe gives you the impression that his vocal cords have been thoroughly consud. Or maybe just atrophied from lack of use.
He cos up to and snatches the book from my hands.
I have skills to handle books without damaging them. Do you have any idea what kind of things rest on your hands? Gently caresses the book's cover, as a mother would with a newborn baby.
I love books; I didnt an to
Shush, the man says, carefully examining the cover of the book I was touching. Right after, he produces a bottle of a translucent liquid from his bag of holding.
Hands, he orders.
I put my hands in front of , and he lets a couple of drops fall into each hand.
Rub them together, also between your fingers. This is a distilled [Cleansing] potion.
I follow the indications under his scrutinizing gaze.
Books do not live just in the present. They live in the future, in the hands of the people who one day will not wash their hands while handling them, the old half-giant, much taller than , coughs for a few seconds before resuming his speech with a raspy voice. Books degrade over the years. While we are alive, we have to take care of them. Every book lost could be its last copy. One of the greatest [Alchemist], a cheeky bastard, hid so of his greatest recipes in a childrens book. Later, when soone found a long-lost journal of his, once the childrens book was already lost, we read that [Recite Passage], if an adult is not able to read with the sa wonder of a child, he should never be allowed to practice the great art of alchemy. But thats just one of the many reasons we should preserve books. Distilled knowledgethats what they are. Go to the plaza among [rchants], then read a book. Youll understand why we could kill this entire city but not burn down my shop.
He assus a disgusted face when talking about [rchants]. The wizened half-giant has a strong misanthropic vibe.
I like it.
I am really sorry, I say while bowing my head. I agree with every single word he said. The fact that he could ditate so profoundly on the importance of books in his era shows how wise he is.
He sighs and passes a hand over his face.
Im too old to complain about the younger generation. And Humans? Its been a while since I saw one of you. Do you still tell your children that we might eat them if they dont behave?
He looks at the book in his hands while talking, not at . And even if he asked a question, it doesnt look like hes interested in a reply.
Are you Marziallium?
Marzalliums grandchild, Licinium. Marzallium is my grandfathers na. And this shop is his heritage, he looks around with wonder in his eyes. Even though hes old and his skin looks like parchnt made from old sheep, his gaze is bright and attentive. For a second, he looks like hes daydreaming. Then, he looks at with a frown. Suddenly, theres animosity in the way he stares at .
Are you a [rchant]?
No.
Mh. Good. Good. They should all die terrible deaths[rchants].
He scrunches his face as if he wants to spit on the ground. But then, he rembers hes in his own shop and reluctantly swallows down.
Are you looking to buy? I only sell copies. If you need a book that has not been copied down yet, you must factor the [Scribe]s price in the final price. The sooner you need it, the higher the fee. Damn [Scribes]. They love to be lazy around when they could be copying important books and manuscripts all day. They make enough money to copy a new book every two or three days without incurring a loss.
The list of people this guy hates appears to be a long one.
I wanted to take a look. Ive read many books in my life. But Im not from here. Id like to peruse so of the manuals you have. I could pay you a fee for
You ca here to read? the man raises an eyebrow.
If its not a problem. And I can pay, I say, raising my hands in a defensive pose.
The old man snorts and swats away one of my arms. I wince. Hes strong.
[rchants] are eagerly awaiting the day Ill finally join our ancestors in the sky. I have no children willing to take on the shop. And they will certainly sell it once they get it from . Im surprised those leeches in the plaza dont hire anyone to assassinate and get their filthy hands on my books.
The old half-giant is panting by the end of his invective against [rchants]. Yet another one. He also looks pale and stumbles backward. I try grabbing his hand, but I simply manage to get the book he almost dropped on the ground. After a few tentative steps, he seems to have regained his balance.
Not today, bloody [rchants], he says, looking around, probably for a chair. Instead, he moves to a chair right behind a pile of books, and I follow with the to in my arms. Old age is a Dragon with lesser acids in his stomach, slowly digesting you.
But, at least, so people with common sense still live, he says while looking at with lancholy. People co to books to consult them and throw them away. I cant despise anyone more than those who just use books when they need them. They will never know the pleasures of a true [Reader].
He stops to look around at the vast mass of books lying in the shop. Few tis I have seen such an affectionate look on soones face. Even when looking at people with kids, there was usually irritation among the love or tiredness. But in this old half-giants eyes, theres only happiness. Hes happy hes been around his books for so long, that he has read them, that he can still read them.
What irritates the most is how they do it. Sure, young lady, I know that people need information, but at least inquire for sothing more. Ask what kind of book could accompany such a dry read like the one about geography. A book on legends, tales, and culture. Are we all [Generals] campaigning to
He erupts in a fit of cough, almost doubling over from the chair.
Giants footprints, he swears, probably forgetting whatever he would say.
What is your favorite book? he enounces each word carefully, trying not to cough away his lungs.
I dont have one, I reply candidly, I like poetry. Maybe I could make a compilation of the poems that I like the mostbut even those change over ti. And every season has a poem fitter for it. Every mont of life, to be honest.
The old man nods.
Theres an old poem, he mutters, I have never figured it out. Soone wrote it in an ancient edition of Tales About Magic. Its a childrens book.
He pauses a second to breathe deeper, concentrating on his air intake.
Its not part of the book. It was a note found on so illustration. I think Im one of the few maybe, the only person in this world to have read it. Would you like to hear it?
I nod.
Why would I say no to an old man and poetry?
Very well, he smiles feebly.
By noble burden and foretoken dear,
A notice I pass on the sleeping seams
Of the stripped world that disappears,
For rotten enemies spun long sches,
Aethereums magic long lives its death,
A faint dream of deaths nigh surprise,
Of his foes multiplying vile demise,
Look for Light, and shed your breath
Quench the war of the Dragons Folly,
Or suffer a thousand tragedies lancholy.
While the old man recited this simple poem, my skin beca coldfor a second. My breath was condensing in the cold air even though its sunny and warm outside. But while he was speaking, I could almost feel sothing crawling all around , a chittering sound of doom.
Thats it, the man says with a shrug, clearly not having felt none of the ominous signs I just perceived.
Reviews
All reviews (0)